Changed
He changed
He used to be
on the brink of real insight
Read the Siddhartha
and dispense recycled wisdoms. Your stories of virtue
formed by the arbitrary metaphysics of your father.
He’s not my father,
and if he was I wouldn’t listen,
as they’ve all called me hardheaded
and learned to get out of my way.
She’s greedy and pale
and expects quick dividends
on an unyielding stock
who has changed and reverted
and dipped into
back to high school
back to young girls
afraid of commitment
drink a cheap beer
back to eighteen
back to
ha
privileged as you are, looking back
and here I’m forced tumbling forward
with no identifiable respite

Come back in your black shirt.
I admired the curve of your arm.
Your skin is getting pale
and you’re losing weight.
You have a new friend,
therefore you no longer need me.
Your hands are full
patting yourself on the back.
I refuse to see you as a pair.
I refuse to see you at all.

Terribly finished
Rustic aesthetic
Rich boys are thief lords
who grew up with no father
and sank into their role
It’s on me, it’s on me, it’s on me mantra
so escape is typically running away
and kissing a girl on the mouth
or the fact that cocaine tastes better on Mt Rainier.
I’ll pummel her
watching him physically raise his fists
the PTSD gives him hyper-vigilance
and he tells anyone who will listen
that he’s ready.
Rich boys manifest destiny,
mouths like slick salmon
saying
She’s incapable of love.
Psychopath.
Siren.
In another world my head does hit the step.
And then I don’t know what to say.
Fall off the radar and the plane will come.
My sense of gratitude slowly morphs
into snarling regret
then sweet indifference
saline
clinical
new.